Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 63

"We've got a bigger problem at hand, I'm afraid." Linder got to his feet, brushing his cloak. "We no longer have a witness, nor solid proof to convict Alfred Henris. Gods, all this dragging around, keeping him under watch--all for naught."

Witness, eh? Farren had seen everything with her own eyes. She'd been in the manor the day the conversation between Alfred and Dion took place.

"I could--" She cut herself off. What weight did her words hold now? She was someone with a rather grand track record, with a demotion under her belt and blazing thief's brand to mark her for life.

"Yes, you could," said Princess Lysandra.

Farren shook her head. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but we wouldn't have to haul Dion all this way if my word was enough."

"It would have to be," said Linder. "Now that the witness is gone, we have to make do with what we do have."

Klo pushed herself off the wall where she'd been leaning. "Very well. In that case, I will speak to His Majesty as well. I interrogated Dion myself, after all."

Boots shuffled behind them. They turned to see Rendarr and Gray, their expressions set. "Count us in, too. We were present during that interrogation," said Rendarr.

"Aye, didn't spew my guts out just to go back empty-handed!" said Gray. "Let's go say hello to His Majesty."

Lysandra took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright. Let us not waste another moment."

They left the garden and followed the princess back into the palace, up the steps to the front gates and into the marble-walled main hall. All around flashed the crimson and gold of the Royal Guards, gauntleted hands on ornate sword hilts. Inquisitive eyes fell upon them, only to be averted the moment when they saw the princess in the lead.

Linder fell awfully silent, his face pale and clammy. He looked anywhere but at those guards. He flinched as one passed by him.

When Farren's hand brushed against his as they walked, she found he was shaking.

"You alright?" She glanced up at him, who almost jumped.

"Why...Why wouldn't I be?"

There was no fooling Farren, who had once seen him awaken from that nightmare, and watched what a toll it took on him.

"I am perfectly alright," he insisted.

She was not one to be deceived. "Don't look it."

He shook his head, as though to clear his own mind. "No...I do not. But now is not the time, Farren. Far more important matters lay ahead."

But ahead awaited another trouble they did not foresee.

Outside the courtroom doors, there stood the Royal Guard, Dasterian Miveresk, speaking to his older brother, Sir Troth Miveresk--the man under whose command the Silver Knife drained the city's lifeblood, the man solely responsible for Linder's exile in Brittlerock, the very same who dragged Farren out of the dungeon after the branding, to keep her mouth shut about his involvement in the illicit dealings.

They promptly abandoned their hushed conversation as they saw Lysandra. Farren noted, rather regrettably, the captain's insignia glittering at Miveresk's chest. Bastard has bagged a promotion already.

"Your Highness!" said Sir Troth. How glad I am to see you safe! These are dangerous times indeed."

She met his eyes with a steely stare. "Evening, Sir."

The nobleman glanced around at the group, if only to escape her unnerving stare. His eyes fell upon Linder and Farren. Recognition dawned. A nasty grin twisted his face.